


Greyscale

by Yùu (Yuutfa)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuutfa/pseuds/Y%C3%B9u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set during The Great Game) That night, Sherlock went to the swimming pool to meet the mastermind behind the games. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite who he had in mind…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greyscale

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my partner in crime who said she wanted some dark/evil John. I hope you enjoy this, darling.

The moment John stepped out from behind the stall, Sherlock felt his blood grow cold. His hand holding the memory stick remained mid air. Slowly, his arm descended as if a wire suspending his arm was slackening. This wasn’t happening. This was an apparition, he told himself, resisting the urge to shake his head in vehement denial. He settled for blinking instead and there John was, clear as day before him, he hadn’t vanished. His mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. He willed the shock on his face to fade. It didn’t.

“Evening,” John said calmly, turning to face him with a small smile. “This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” This part was said cheerfully, far too chipper and completely unsuitable for the situation they found themselves in. John’s smile grew wider as he rocked on the balls of his feet, his hands remaining in his parka pockets as he did.

“John... What the hell—” His voice was quiet, betrayal sat rank in his stomach. His hand had fully lowered and he pivoted his body, doing his best to face his flatmate, his fr— Was John even his friend anymore? His breath felt choked as he was stabbed in the chest once more, bile was steadily rising up his throat; he forced it down.

“Bet you never saw this coming,” John’s voice raised ever so slightly, hysteria seeping into the cracks of his words. “Oh, this has been fun, hasn’t it?”

For once in his life, Sherlock was confused. The evidence was swimming around him, literally. All the pieces fell into place and yet, he was unable to believe it. Quiet, unassuming John, a criminal mastermind capable of such cruelty? Such destruction? John Watson, the army doctor whose hands healed and nurtured, whose hands were capable of punishing those who wronged. No, this was all wrong, this was all twisted. Nothing made sense, but at the same time, it was all crystal clear.

“John,” he managed to choke out.

John raised an eyebrow but made no movement towards him. “Sherlock, I’m surprised. You’re meant to be a sociopath, so what’s with that look?” His mock surprise faded and a malevolent smile stretched his thin lips. “You don’t have friends, so you don’t have a reason to be hurt or betrayed.” He pulled his hand from his pocket and lifted it, snapping his fingers.

A red light blinked over Sherlock’s chest. Over his heart.

“It probably won’t hit anything. You proved you were heartless after you let that old woman die, after all.”

Sherlock pushed back the pain and desperately reached out to grasp an emotion. Any emotion that wasn’t this blinding ache that rendered his body and mind useless. His mind supplied him with images, laughing beside John in the corridor, sharing smiles with him over the breakfast table, the doctor’s annoyance at finding body parts in the fridge—No. No, no, he needed to delete these memories. They weren’t relevant. Not anymore. All of it was useless data. The John Watson he thought he knew, that was an act; an elaborate scheme to get under his skin and lower his defences.

This realisation wounded him far more than any simple bullet to the chest.

“What’s this? You’re speechless. Sherlock, it’s usually so hard to shut you up, why the change of heart?”

Such cruel words did not belong in John Watson’s mouth. Sherlock internally winced. No, he was wrong, he was still deluding himself. He never knew John in the first place. He needed to calm down. He needed to approach this situation in the calm analytical way he known for.

“As always, your deductions are faulty,” Sherlock finally replied, his voice deceptively calm. “You just said that I didn’t have a heart.”

John chuckled low and dark, sending chills down Sherlock’s spine. “Well, you got me there,” he replied, holding his hands up in mock defeat. Slowly, he began to approach the consulting detective, Sherlock remained where he was, the red dot keeping him in place.

“It was you, wasn’t it? That phone, those games. All of it right under my nose and I didn’t even notice.” Sherlock silently hoped that his words did not hold any of the self-contempt he was currently drowning in, the last thing he needed was to give John more leverage. John was barely a foot away now, entering Sherlock’s personal space with his arms outstretched and reaching behind Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock mentally cursed when he felt his heart quicken.

“You’re always complaining that you’re bored,” John replied smoothly, his hand crept under Sherlock’s jacket and his grin widened when he felt the shudder. “And Mrs Hudson would hate it if you shot the wall again.” He stepped back, ever so slightly. Just enough for Sherlock to see the gun in his hand. John’s gun.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he resisted the urge to check his waistband. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he let himself be distracted like that? Be distracted by John’s scent, by his close proximity, by his very presence? Wrong, all of this was so wrong! He was just standing there, slack-jawed and even more unresponsive than a bloody cadaver. And why? Because the only man he trusted with his life turned out to be his greatest enemy.

Because despite all of these facts screaming at him, Sherlock still found himself irrefutably attracted to him.

As if he had been able to read his thoughts, John stepped forward once more and reached for the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling it down and softly brushing their lips together.

Confusion, shock, confusion, embarrassment, confusion, fear, confusion, stomach doing flips, confusion, unable to breathe, confusion.

John’s lips curved into a grin.

The sound of metallic clicking rang loud, shattering the still calm of the pool. Sherlock felt the cool press of metal against his temple. John didn’t step away.

“Through your brilliant brain or through your fickle heart, Sherlock? Which is better?” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock swallowed thickly but was unable to answer. His breathing was erratic, having lost the ability to properly breathe through his nose. Inhales and exhales were shallow and his chest barely moved, Sherlock was beginning to feel lightheaded.

It seemed like an eternity when John groaned and stepped away.

“Boring,” he muttered, taking the gun away from Sherlock’s head. “I should just get rid of you here and now, but what fun would that be? I enjoyed making you dance and I saw with my own eyes that you loved it too.” John let out a sigh, the same one he used when he found something particularly unpleasant in the microwave. “Let’s dance a little longer, huh? Since we’re having so much fun.”

Sherlock’s mind returned, if only briefly. “I will hunt you down,” he snapped. His indignant fury had finally overcome his shock and horror. Cold, gripping anger seeped into his very being and it took every ounce of self-control not to throttle the man in front of him. His eye caught the red light on his breastbone, reminding him of the situation he was in.

“Oh, I look forward to the chase,” John replied amiably. He stepped further away and turned his back to Sherlock, beginning to make his exit. He was bored of the meeting, it had seemed.

Before Sherlock had the chance to lunge forward and take advantage of the situation, four more red dots joined the first; halting his journey. He was forced to watch as the man he knew and loved, walked away and trampled on his heart.

“Thanks for returning my gun,” John called out, when he was on the other side of the pool. Pausing for a moment when his hand touched the handle, he looked over his shoulder and held Sherlock’s gaze for the briefest of seconds. For a moment, he looked like the John Watson he once knew, the look vanished in an instant. “Oh and by the way, Sherlock?”

Icy-blue eyes narrowed in warning.

“You’re out of milk.”


End file.
